by Regina Scott
Richard put his arm about her shoulders and held her against him. “I’m sorry I brought you into this. I can’t see you hurt, Claire. If you want to disassociate yourself from us once we reach London, I’ll understand.”
Disassociate herself? Leave Samantha, leave him? Even if her circumstances had been different, she knew her answer. “I am exceedingly pleased to be Lady Everard’s sponsor. This business with Chevalier changes nothing.”
He rubbed a hand against her arm, the caress soothing. “Thank you. I suppose I’m a coxcomb for hoping you have another reason to help.”
Claire allowed herself the luxury of resting her head against his chest, of feeling herself held and treasured. “You know I do. Only don’t press me to give you an answer now, Richard. I scarcely understand my own feelings.”
“I would never do anything to harm you, Claire.”
Oh, how she wanted to believe that! As it was, the best she could offer him was to wrap her arms about him and hug him back.
A day later, they rumbled into the busiest city in the empire. Fields and hamlets had given way to towering buildings in stone and brick; dusty roads had become cobbled streets. Samantha’s conversation had faltered, then staggered into single words like, “Oh!” and “Goodness!” Nothing Claire could have said, she was sure, would have pulled the girl away from the window now. Samantha had moved to the Evendale Valley so young, she likely had no other memories beyond the manor and the little village nearby. Everything about London left her breathless.
But not speechless for long.
“I didn’t know there would be so much space. Whose fields are those?”
Claire smiled as they turned onto Oxford Street. “Those aren’t fields. That was the edge of Hyde Park. We’ll take a ride there some afternoon. You’ll find Mayfair more crowded.”
“There’s a man juggling plates!”
Richard winked at Claire. “Any number of enterprising people make a living in London.”
“Oh my!” Samantha sat back, stunned. “The horses on that carriage exactly matched the lady’s gown, and she was driving!”
“Now, there,” Claire said with a wink back to Richard, “is style.”
Samantha remained enthusiastic as they climbed down from the carriage in front of Everard House. Her family home was set just off the street on the edge of a square, with a carriage portico before the lacquered door. The white stone of the house gleamed in the fading sunlight, and windows like a dozen eyes sparkled back at Claire. Grooms came running to take charge of the horse and carriage, and their hired outriders circled the block for the mews to discharge their duty and retrieve their pay. Toby got down off his horse and glanced about as if unsure what to do.
“Make sure your mount is cared for to your satisfaction, then join us inside,” Richard instructed.
Claire was glad for his hand on her arm as they crossed for the door. Her leg was throbbing from the jostling in the carriage and the long times with so little movement. She was ready for a steady seat and a quiet cup of tea.
An imposing footman was on duty in the entryway when Richard ushered her and Samantha inside. Richard had obviously been true to his word about refurbishing the house, for the marble floor glowed, and the scent of lemon hung in the air, whispering of carefully polished wood. The vision of elegance was spoiled by the enormous statue of a naked woman, who held out an apple toward Claire.
Claire glanced at Richard and raised her brows. Samantha, standing behind Richard, merely stared around her in wonder.
“I’m Captain Everard,” Richard informed the footman, who was apparently newly hired, “and this is Lady Everard and Lady Winthrop, her sponsor for the Season. We’ll all be staying for some time. Find Mr. Marshall for me.”
“At once, sir,” he said, moving to comply with Richard’s orders. Just then a voice called from the landing.
“Ho, my cousin the captain! Aren’t you off course?” Vaughn Everard, dressed in evening black, hair pulled back in a queue, descended the stair with a ready grin, which faded as he took in Claire and Richard’s travel-worn clothes.
“What’s happened?” he demanded as he reached the bottom.
“Oh, Cousin Vaughn!” Samantha darted around Richard and cast herself into her cousin’s arms.
Vaughn held her close, patting her back, then carefully pushed her away from him. “Here now, infant. Why the tears? I thought you wanted to come to London, and early too, unless I’ve miscounted my days.”
Samantha wiped at her eyes and beamed at him. “Were you counting the days, too?”
Vaughn offered her a bow. “Every second, I assure you.”
Claire thought the poet had more likely been keeping himself busy with other matters while in London, matters he clearly didn’t wish to discuss with Samantha. Had he uncovered the truth about her father’s death?
A tall, slender gentleman with thick graying hair came down the corridor just then, adjusting his cravat with long fingers. His nose was formidable, and his smile assured. Now, there was a butler.
“Welcome home, Lady Everard, Captain Everard,” he said before offering Claire a bow. “Lady Winthrop, I believe I have you to thank for the augmentation of my staff. How might I be of service?”
Claire didn’t hesitate. “Good evening. Mr. Marshall, is it? Allow me to make a few suggestions.”
In a remarkably short time, Mr. Linton, Toby Giles and the coach and horses had been settled; Samantha was with Mercier setting up her room; and Claire was seated in the withdrawing room with a bracing draught of tea. Though the room lacked the refined femininity of its counterpart at Dallsten Manor, Claire thought the twin windows draped in heavy brocade, the camel-back sofa upholstered in crimson velvet, and the scroll-back mahogany chairs surrounding it would do.
Richard and Vaughn had not taken the chairs’ invitation to sit, however. They stood next to the black marble fireplace, faces tight.
“So you think this dance master is in the employ of our enemy?” Vaughn asked, one hand gripping the mantel as he leaned toward the heat.
“It’s the most likely explanation,” Richard said.
Vaughn smacked his hand against the stone and straightened. “Then we must find him, make him tell us what he knows.” Anger jetted out of him, like steam from a kettle.
“The magistrates will be delighted to assist,” Claire said.
Richard glanced her way with a smile, as if glad for her suggestion. Vaughn shook his platinum-haired head.
“The magistrates have been little help so far. They refused to see Uncle’s death as murder. We had to pay a Bow Street Runner to look into the matter. He was here yesterday, by the way. It seems he found Repton.”
Claire frowned at the name, but Richard brightened. “Uncle’s valet? What did he have to say for himself?”
“Nothing. He’s dead. They found him floating in the Thames.”
Claire set down her tea with a trembling hand. “How horrid!”
Richard crossed to her side and put a hand on her shoulder. As always, the touch steadied her. “We’re safe here,” he said.
“Are we?” Vaughn strode to join them. “I don’t think we can say that until we determine what we’re facing. What do we know about this dance master? Where did he live in London? Who were his associates?”
“Besides the Marquess of Widmore,” Richard said.
“Who refuses to see me,” Vaughn added.
Claire glanced between the two. She could not encourage vengeance. Yet, if the dance master was the only clue to a greater evil, shouldn’t she help them find him? She wanted to live in the spirit of boldness the Lord promised.
“I have his address in London,” she offered. “It was on his reference.”
Richard frowned, but Vaughn went down on one knee in front of her. “Sweet lady, tell me w
here to seek him.”
Claire looked into his deep brown Everard eyes. She could make out the intelligence she’d seen in Richard’s, and the excitement that brimmed in Samantha’s. But something else lurked there, a pain, a loss that drove him. He would not be one to lash out, she thought, as her husband had done, but he would strike those he felt had wronged his family. She glanced up at Richard for guidance.
“Tell him only what you wish, Claire,” he said. “I trust your judgment.”
How amazing! He trusted her judgment when she so often questioned it. She felt her conviction building. “His reference is in my travel desk. Mercier, my maid, will know how to find it.”
Vaughn hopped to his feet. “Then I’m away.”
“And I’m coming with you,” Richard said. “Don’t leave without me.”
Vaughn nodded and exited the room.
Richard squeezed Claire’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
She put her hand over his, gazing up at him. His brow was drawn, as if his cousin’s pain concerned him as well, but she saw no eagerness for a fight.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “I just hope you learn the truth. We need answers, your cousin most of all.”
“He was Uncle’s man,” Richard said, “more than either of the pair of us. He won’t be able to rest until he understands why Uncle died, and why Uncle didn’t turn to him for help.”
“Then I’m glad I told him about Chevalier,” Claire said.
“So am I.” Richard withdrew his hand and went after his cousin.
Alone, she stared into the fire. It seemed she’d made the right decision in this case, and she felt certain she was the right sponsor for Samantha. She had to believe she’d been right about Richard as well.
The contrast between him and his cousin went deeper than their looks. Vaughn was a fire blazing hot, as likely to burn as to warm. Richard had learned to temper his desires, make them do his bidding. Unlike her late husband, he knew how to control himself. And every word, every touch, every action said he loved her.
She closed her eyes. Thank You, Lord. I know what You expect now. I will return Richard’s love, be his wife. And I know he’ll be a good husband because of the man You made him.
A sound behind her, the soft placement of a shoe against carpet, forced her eyes open.
“I am very disappointed in you, Lady Winthrop,” Henri Chevalier said, sliding out from behind the drapes. “We could have avoided all these unpleasantries if you had convinced him to stay in Cumberland as I asked.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Richard had not reached the entryway before his conscience nagged at him. Claire had had a trying few days, like the rest of them, plagued by worries, pushed to protect. Leaving her with no more than a pat on the shoulder felt wrong. Chevalier might not even have returned to London. And if he had, surely the truth would wait a few more minutes.
“See to our horses,” he ordered the footman by the door. Then he turned to Vaughn, who was pacing the space like a caged lion. “Wait for me. I’ll be right back.”
Vaughn nodded, gaze dark, but Richard thought his mind was already riding ahead to their confrontation with the dance master.
Richard took the stairs two at a time and hurried for the withdrawing room at the back of the house. He’d hold Claire close, soothe any concerns, assure her of his love. She was a strong woman, stronger now than when he’d first known her, but even the strongest needed an arm around the shoulder from time to time. And, truth be told, he wouldn’t have minded feeling her in his arms.
The sound of voices drew him up short of the door.
“What are you doing here?” Claire demanded. “How did you get in?”
“With so many new servants? That part was child’s play. Waiting for you to be alone was harder.”
Richard froze as he recognized the voice. Chevalier, here? Every instinct shouted at him to protect, to defend, but he knew he had to go carefully, for Claire’s sake. For all he knew, the man was holding a weapon on her.
“Why do you need me?” Claire protested. “You aren’t a friend. You shot at us!”
“You have only yourself to blame,” the dance master said. “I did warn you, repeatedly. I cannot help it if you do not listen.”
Richard heard the rustle of Claire’s skirts, and relief washed over him. She could not be held at gunpoint if she was able to move around.
“I suggest you leave now,” Claire said, her siren’s voice dangerously low. “Before I scream.”
Good for her! But Chevalier had a ready answer. “You will not scream. Think of poor Lady Everard’s reputation.”
“Why?” she asked. “You didn’t. What’s so important you had to keep her from London?”
Richard stilled, holding his breath for the answer.
“That no longer matters. She is here. I have failed. My only hope is to escape before he finds me.”
“He?” Claire pressed, asking the question on Richard’s mind. “Who is your master?”
“Someone too powerful to avoid. Now, onto your feet. You will help me escape.”
“I think not,” Claire said calmly, but Richard had had enough. He straightened away from the wall and walked into the room.
“Stand down, Chevalier,” he ordered. “You’ve been caught.”
The dance master was standing next to the arm of the sofa, far too close to Claire for Richard’s liking. But Claire, his marvelous Claire, was seated calmly, skirts arranged about her, as if taking tea with the queen.
“Good of you to join us, Captain Everard,” she said. “I believe Monsieur Chevalier would like to turn himself in.”
The dance master shook his head, eyes widening. His hair was no longer purposefully disheveled; now it hung about his pale face in limp locks. His black cloak was rumpled and caked with dust as if he’d ridden hard. He pushed the wool aside to show a heavy dueling pistol in one gloved hand.
“Stay back, Capitaine, I warn you. I came here for your help. A ship lies ready on the Thames, bound for Jamaica. It is my only hope.”
“For all I know, that’s my ship you’re talking about,” Richard said, edging closer. He had to get Claire away from that gun. “I won’t allow a madman aboard.”
“Madman?” Chevalier laughed, but the sound was high-pitched and fragile. “I am not the one you should fear.”
“Then who?” Claire demanded, rising. “Name this phantom that drives you!”
No! She’d put herself between the gun and Richard. He froze once more.
But Chevalier was intent on Claire, face bunched as if in pain. “You must understand,” he begged her. “I had nothing. He befriended me, helped me. Always have I done his bidding, watching from the shadows, and he has paid me well. But I know what happens to those who fail him. They disappear in the night, wash up in the Thames. I allowed Lady Everard to come to London, to risk his exposure. He will not let me live.”
“Give me a name,” Richard commanded, taking a step toward him. “Who paid you to spy on us, to send those warnings? If I know, I can protect you.”
“No one can protect me!” He grabbed Claire and shoved her in front of him, pressing the gun into her side. Claire clamped her lips together as if to keep from crying out.
Richard felt cold all over. “Put down that pistol.”
Chevalier pulled Claire closer, and her gasp was like a knife to Richard’s heart.
“I will not answer you,” the dance master cried. “Back away! Lady Winthrop will come with me to the ship. If I do not see you, I will leave her safely on the dock. Do not try me, or I swear I will kill her!”
Richard could see the desperation in the dance master’s gray eyes. His fears drove him harder than a rising tide. Chevalier had already shot from cover twice. This time, Claire was his target.
Richard took a step back, looking for any sign of weakness he might exploit. The most important thing was to get Claire away from the dastard. “Leave her here. I swear you won’t be followed.”
“Ha! You know nothing!” He edged toward the door, dragging Claire with him. Her head was down as if she despaired of her life. Anger and dread raced along Richard’s veins as well.
Please, Lord! Don’t take her from me!
“Already he knows I have returned in failure,” he said, backing for the door, gaze on Richard. “People watch me. I see them darting into alleyways to avoid notice. But he is fond of the lady, I know. ‘She is the key,’ he told me. ‘With her on your side, you cannot lose.’ I enlisted her aid in Cumberland. I will do so again now.”
Claire’s head came up then, and her gaze met Richard’s. Instead of the panic he’d expected, righteous indignation blazed like cold fire from her pale eyes.
“I’m afraid your patron is incorrect,” she said. “I refuse to have any part in this.” She brought the heel of her shoe down on his instep. Chevalier winced, but Claire’s face twisted as her leg gave out. Down she went, right out of his grip into a puddle of black wool on the floor.
Richard didn’t stop to think. He slammed into Chevalier, knocking the man backward. Even as Richard regained his balance, fists rising to defend, the pistol clattered to the floor. Claire snatched it up and leveled it at the dance master as he struggled to his feet.
Richard rose over Chevalier. “Talk. Now.”
Chest heaving, he glanced between Richard and the pistol. Claire raised it higher as if to prove her intentions. Seeing her narrow-eyed look, sharp as daggers, Richard wouldn’t have wanted to chance her. Chevalier must have thought the same, for he slumped with a sigh.
“Why not? Whatever happens now, I am a dead man. What do you wish to know?”
“Who hired you?” Claire asked. “Who dares implicate me in this mess?”
Richard could only admire her fire, but he fully expected more prevarication from Chevalier. Yet it seemed the dance master was beaten, for he answered readily enough. “Widmore.”